Extreme Aggressor: A Oneshot
by Graveygraves
Summary: 'The Reid effect'. How does Reid feel early on in his FBI days, has he finally found somewhere to fit in or is he still the awkward geek? A little retrospective look at how Spencer Reid may have felt back in the beginning. Not Beta'd so views and comments appreciated.


**Extreme Aggressor: One-shot**

**Disclaimer: I own noting but the ideas.**

**I watched this episode the other day and this little idea sprang up. The definition for genius literally came from Google.**

**. . .**

**Prompt**

**Hotch:** Oh no, it's okay. It's what we call the 'Reid effect'. Happens with children too

. . .

The 'Reid effect'!

They even had a name for it now. That ability he had to make everyone feel extremely uncomfortable. Most picked up on it before he opened his mouth, apparently children and animals in particular if his boss' comment was anything to go by.

He was blatantly aware he was different. He had been aware of that for most of his young years, having never 'fitted in' anywhere other than home with his mother. Part of it was the way he looked, then there was everything else in the complicated bundle that was Spencer Reid.

It wasn't that he didn't try; he just failed miserably in the process. So decided to give up trying and pleased himself instead – well he obviously wasn't pleasing anyone else. Personally he didn't care if his socks didn't match, or it still looked like his Mom cut his hair. Appearances were immaterial to Spencer. He had seen enough false veneers hiding the truth in his short years to take much notice of what a person looked like.

Doctor Spencer Reid – child protégé, college genius, FBI expert on everything or bullies' punch bag, social recluse and general freak. You choose.

Personally Spencer had never appreciated any of the labels assigned to him. He didn't consider himself gifted – his intelligence wasn't a gift, it hadn't been given to him, it was him, part of him whether he wanted it or not. Neither was he talented – okay maybe you could consider his reading ability a natural aptitude or skill, or even his eidetic memory, but were they really talents? Musical ability or specific sporting skills were what the world viewed as talents.

Genius, the most common word used to make him fit into a nice neat little box. Someone with exceptional intellectual or creative power or other natural ability – guess he could tick that box. Though he would still argue how reliable the tests were to quantify a person's intelligence. However he could understand how it made teachers and others more comfortable to be able to assign a number so they could understand what they were supposed to do with him.

After all what do you do in Kindergarten with a child who can already read, write and do math? And not in the spidery unsure sort of way the other 'brighter' kids could, but in a way that made adults shuffle uncomfortably and share glances or the way that made people whisper as you performed your 'tricks' on their command to an ever increasing audience of those who came to view him.

It really was no wonder that Spencer had always felt the odd one out. He was a freak show from the minute he walked into formal education. Until that point he knew no different, he had assumed all children his age could read short novels, and understand them. He didn't realise it was strange to be able to add, subtract, multiply and divide in his head.

He remembered the point in his life clearly, sitting in the book corner, desperately trying to find something to capture his attention and others ran manically around him – pretending to be trains or planes or robots or princesses. He remembered watching them, not understanding what they were doing. The piles of dinosaur toys, cars and dolls that littered the room were things that he never had in his life, because his was full of books and notepads of poetry his mother had written out.

It hadn't got any easier from that day forward.

He had been observed and tested. Meetings had been held to discuss what to do with him – how he was to be treated differently to everyone else. Soon he was being pushed though the system, as it was easier to educate him in a year group doing the stuff he was capable of then try and set appropriate work in with his peers.

That brought its own problems; working people roughly six years older than him left him vulnerable. His social naivety and awkwardness becoming increasingly obvious as he struggled to be accepted by those he shared a class with. Why should they accept him, when he spent his days making them look inferior? 'That little smart ass got all he deserved.'

Did he? Spencer often wondered what he did to deserve the pranks and the teasing. What exactly did he do to deserve being stripped naked and tied to a football post? He had never hurt anyone; he had never been cruel or inflicted pain and humiliation upon others. Not knowingly. Yet they appeared to hate him, wanting to make each moment a living hell.

He learned quickly to keep quiet – telling tales got him no-where. Well unless you counted outside for another beating. It was easier to shut up and take it – or rapidly learn to avoid being in certain situations. Staying late to use the library, so as to not have to walk home at the same time as others or finding excuses to not to do any form of physical exercise, locker rooms were a no go area.

College hadn't been much better to begin with – however the interest in him seemed to wear of quickly. The novelty of the geeky kid playing in the big boys playground morphed into those who wanted him to complete their assignments – well he was too young to go out and party and he had already read and memorised all the recommended text, plus several that weren't on the list. Problems started when lecturers got use to his style and could pick it out in the work of others. It taught him to be versatile and able to adapt. It wasn't hard to pull the wool over the eyes of the majority if it saved him another round of persecution.

What had ever made him choose the FBI, other than the inspiring talk given by a certain Agent Gideon, still baffled him today. For someone who avoided all physical elements of school life to take a career that needed him to pass classes in marksmanship, physical training, obstacle courses, Hogan's Alley to name a few. It was the first time in his life he had failed at anything – and somehow it felt good. He had never been remediated in anything until he had hit the academy.

Yet even there the legacy bore him out, and once again exceptions were made. Though this time it wasn't because it was too easy – this was because he simply couldn't do it.

And so here he stood, back in his apartment, another case closed and all he could wonder about was: would he ever find a place where he would be accepted just as he is?

. . .

The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.  
**Oscar Wilde**


End file.
